‘Where’s your boss?’ Larry said to Becali, who had pretended not to notice the police officer approaching him.
‘Our night off,’ Becali replied. Not a good enough answer for Larry. Betty grabbed hold of Becali’s face and pulled it forward to hers before kissing him firmly on the mouth, a clear sign to Larry to leave them alone. Usually, he would have. Becali was a violent lover, known to be so because another Betty lookalike had ended up in the hospital badly beaten and bruised. She had wanted to bring a case against the man, supposedly a dispute over the final payment for her services. In the end, the woman had left the hospital and moved out of the area. Larry had made some low-level enquiries, but nothing had come of them. Either she had found herself face down in a ditch somewhere, or she was feeding the fish and the crabs at the bottom of the river, or she had changed her name and was standing on a street corner somewhere selling herself for whatever she could. Regardless, no one, not even a next of kin or a friend, had come forward after the woman vanished.
‘It’s the first time I’ve seen you and Antonescu in the pub together without your boss.’
‘Nicolae Cojocaru’s not a man for drinking.’
‘He’s game for anything else.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘The last time I saw you, it was in here with Cojocaru. He was worried then, so were you, and here you are with your fancy woman. No doubt you’ve got a night of pleasure planned. I hope we don’t have to visit the hospital later tonight or tomorrow to find her in intensive care.’
‘Ion treats me well,’ Betty said, the needle marks visible on her skin.
‘We need to meet with your boss,’ Larry said. ‘If he’s in the country, that is. If he’s not, where is he?’
‘He’s here. Others are looking out for him. And he’s entertaining tonight, the same as I am. Antonescu’s keeping himself comfortable with a few beers.’
‘He’s not a lover?’
‘He is, but he likes a drink now and then. For myself, a couple of pints and a good woman.’
‘Betty’s the good woman? I thought you had a couple of classy whores in your stable.’
‘How dare you insult me,’ Betty said indignantly.
‘Take no notice,’ Becali said. ‘Detective Inspector Hill’s just leaving.’
‘It’s my night off, Hill,’ the man said, turning his gaze to Larry. ‘And If I fancy a bit of rough, then that’s my right. It’s a democratic country where a man can make his own decisions.’
Larry sat down and looked over at the young prostitute. ‘Betty, you heard the man, you’re the rough. Just make sure that you don’t end up as the beaten or even the dead.’
‘Cojocaru will see you tomorrow morning,’ Becali said. Larry could see the redness in the man’s face, the tightening of his grip on his glass, the look of an angry man.
‘I’ll be there with Detective Chief Inspector Cook. There’s a gang war brewing, and we want to stop it before it gets out of hand.’
‘So do we. Now if you’ll excuse us, go away and talk to your informer friend. And tell him to be careful. We don’t like people sticking their noses into our business.’
‘I’ll tell him, but I’ll be keeping an eye out for what you’re doing. We’re not sure that you weren’t involved in what happened at Briganti’s.’
‘Okay, Mr Policeman, you don’t like us, and we don’t like you. Mutual dislike and distrust, is that it?’
‘It is, but I’ve got the law behind me, you haven’t.’
‘Idle threats. Mr Cojocaru doesn’t take favourably to people who threaten him.’
‘We know his solution, and you and Antonescu carry it out.’
Larry stood and walked away, observing the look between Becali and Antonescu. Betty sat to one side of Becali; she was not holding him as tight as before. Larry hoped that the woman would not regret selling herself to a vicious man for the night.
***
Seamus Gaffney, a man who appreciated a few pints of beer of a night after a hard day of not doing much, was waiting for Larry to come over to where he was sitting. That day he had organised the location for an illegal dogfight where bloodthirsty men would bet on the outcome of two half-starved dogs fighting each other, the victor being accorded the accolades, the other, either maimed or dead. Gaffney didn’t appreciate the spectacle himself, but he had bills to pay, the same as everyone else.
There was a wife, a homely woman who preferred to stay back in Ireland, although he went over there every six weeks to see her. Not that he was idle back there, as there were six children and another on the way. He liked it there, and the cottage where his family lived was paid for. The only problem was that the community was honest and law-abiding, the sort of place where everyone went to church on a Sunday, and where he didn’t fit in. In his childhood, he’d been hyperactive, and in his teens, he had been into graffiti and vandalism, painting the church door with his impression of art: bright orange and blue. And then as an adult, it was false cheques and a few months in prison. He had become a leper in Ireland, yet Sheila, the next-door neighbour’s daughter, had always been there, even during his childhood and his adolescence, and then his time in prison. They had married on a Saturday, a small affair at the church where he had adorned the church door. Even Father O’Rourke, the village priest, had made a joke of it at the time of the wedding, although the
